


Dancing After Death

by imperialfool



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Good Omens, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Aziraphale's Name is Ezra (Good Omens), Combination of the immortality and reincarnation lore, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), Immortality, Implied/Referenced Emotional Manipulation, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Not Beta Read, Slow Burn, careless use of latin, i still don't know how to tag stuff but these seem like the most relevant for now, i think it's a human AU since they're technically human but with special sprinkles, rating might change it's a huge possibility
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26305273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialfool/pseuds/imperialfool
Summary: Being marked as an immortal never made them invincible. But their ability to reincarnate and retrieve their memories meant they will never fade away.Ezra Fell had been running his bookshop for more than 200 hundred years and stopped looking for Antonius' reincarnated form to protect them both from an encroaching threat. It's not going to be that easy, though. When you've existed long enough and have lived countless iterations of it, you learn that fate or miserable luck finds a way to mess about.
Relationships: Anathema Device & Newton Pulsifer, Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Gabriel (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 22





	1. I’m just living like a man on fire.

A loud honking hauled him out of the dark expanse of his vision with a sudden jolt. His awareness shifted instantly from the quiet murmurs of a restless sleep to the sunlight that’s forced its way in through the curtains.

“This is exactly why people are grumpy in the morning,” he said, voice still hoarse.

The sound of activity outside hasn’t yet reached a full crescendo, and with how he was rudely dragged out instead of being gently jostled out of his dreams, the day would forgive him if he stayed a few minutes more under the warmth of the heavy duvet. 

He thought of the new books he’ll add in the inventory, some of which will go directly to his personal collection while the others can attract as many grabby hands as it wants. He thought of breakfast and tea and if his appetite wanted something fruity, greasy, or a bit of both. He thought of Anathema and their jaunt out and how equally excited and frightened he is of what she’s planned for the night. 

And he thought to thank whoever’s listening for an almost dreamless slumber.

Ezra Fell, he calls himself these days, lifted his hands to cup his face, rubbing the drowsiness away. Just shy of his back complaining from the lazing around, he got up and resolved to get through the day without much fanfare to reserve energy he’ll undoubtedly need for later.

Cold water erupted from the shower and splashed on his face, drawing the last grouts of sleep out of his system, before the welcome warm sprays took over.

Bathing is the hardest part of each day. He can’t bear looking at his chest, at the dark, cursed mark that reminds him daily of his failures. He wished he could get rid of it, erase it from his body just as easily as one rubs out pencil marks. But this mark is him. They all have it. To ignore it is to deny what he is, and he doesn’t deserve that mercy, not just yet. If he scrubbed at it extra hard, it’s only because he wanted to see if it would look less of a flaw each day that he does. 

Drying his hair with a towel, Ezra proceeded to shave his thickening beard to a medium stubble. He ran his hands to his damp, loose curls to fix them into more manageable, clean waves on his head. Satisfied with his work, he straightened himself up and pointed a reprimanding finger on his reflection. “Now listen here, Ezra. You can mope all you want in this room, but once you’re at the bookshop, there’ll be none of this “feelings” nonsense, alright? It upsets the books. And you know as well as I that Anathema will definitely fuss - that’s much worse.”

Each article of clothing is methodically worn, like armour that has been polished to shining metal so that none of the chinks and weathered scrapes can be seen — a white undershirt, blue button up, fitted chestnut waistcoat that matched the tawny tweed suit, a tartan bow tie for that pop of colour, and a signet ring that was the only item of his he kept from his very far past. 

Inviting, soft, with just a hint of that affable scoundrel only his closest acquaintances have ever experienced in full force. It took years to build these layers the way that it is now, and if his demeanour lifts up somebody else’s mood or finds him easy to approach, then he can only like it. 

With one last lookover, he turned for the kitchen. 

One would imagine that being a food enthusiast for all his life, Ezra would’ve picked up cooking easily. Even if it’s just for his favourite dishes — which is moot, he thought, since he’s accumulated a tasting for quite a lot of it from moving too much. He can at least do the most basic requirements — frying, heating, reheating. 

But he looked at his pantry and found that he’s not much in the mood to prepare a meal, and shrugged this off as him being determined to be as idle as he possibly can. “I think I’ll just have those cakes I left at the bookshop.”

Turning for the door, Ezra climbed down the creaky steps. “Good morning,” he greeted dust and parchment. His hands couldn't help but run through the spines of books he’s passing, picking up the misplaced rare editions to hide in between titles he knows his customers would find dull. 

Behind the counter, there’s a small fridge where he usually keeps some of his snacks, just near his work desk so he can get to his nibbles when he’s peckish. He opened it and found the cinnamon drizzle he ordered the night before. “Yes, and with Earl Grey, this will be delightful,” mumbling as he took the slice out and proceeded to make himself tea in the backroom.

He happily munched on his humble breakfast, already thinking about what he might perhaps want to get delivered for brunch, or at least before he leaves for their dinner. 

Anathema arrived from America a little over 20 years ago and decided very quickly that she'd want to be a distance away from the noise of the city. But they so dearly missed each other and wanted to make up for lost time. So she'd chosen to move somewhere that would make it easy for both of them to visit each other. The quaint village of Tadfield has in it one of the most peculiar humans within its midst, and it's not even going to be aware of her in the next decades to come. That's just how their existence works, for some reason. Suspicion slides off them very easily, like a defence mechanism that doesn't need much prodding. Twice a month they plan these excursions so that they can at least have a semblance of their life before, even if the circumstances had drastically changed for him. He guessed it's one of the reasons why Anathema moved near him and insists on these trips — it's very vexing to think about but she's probably worried for him.

A crumbless plate and an empty cup later, Ezra stood from his desk and lightly dusted off the show tables and flipped over his sign. From the door’s small panes he could glance at the truck that rudely woke him up, unloading what looked to be just countless accoutrements.

He unlocked the bolt and opened one of the doors wide, “What a bright morning we have today.”

***********************************************

“Aziraphale!” a high-pitched voice yelled from the entrance. 

Ezra was in the middle of talking to a customer — convincing him that he doesn’t want _that_ edition of Pride and Prejudice, he wants _this_ newer edition because it has stronger cover flaps — when he turned to see Anathema and Newt standing at the circular entryway. “Kindly excuse me, sir,” he said, throwing his visitors an annoyed glare.

“I’m looking for an old book,” she said as he approached.

“Oh, really. And how old would this book be?” he replied.

“A very very old book. _Old as balls._ ”

Rolling his eyes, he quickly guided them to his desk behind the counter and away from prying ears. “Anathema, it’s _Ezra Fell_. I don’t want any of the customers thinking a 200-year old man is walking around the bookshop,” he admonished quietly.

“But there is a 200-year old man walking around the bookshop. In fact, he’s actually way older than that.” Not giving him a chance to retort, Anathema shoved a pink box into his hands. He opened it carefully and saw six red velvet cupcakes, the ones she knew he liked. “Will that make up for it?” she said with a wink.

Ezra picked one up and bit into the soft sweetness of it — the generous dollop of cream cheese whip was smooth and with a slight tang, the red velvet tasted of scrumptious buttermilk, and the chocolate chips in the cake were a delicious surprise. “No, my dear, but it’s a start,” he took another bite and handed Anathema and Newt their own cupcakes to eat.

Theirs had been an accidental friendship. Aziraphale, as he was once called, had been on a trip to France on a whim when a crusade against the Cathars had been happening. The army had set their eyes on Béziers where he unfortunately got himself trapped in the siege. It shouldn’t have since the entire population expected it, but the attack still surprised him. Hiding from place to place, his chest suddenly felt a subtle pounding as though he was being softly punched right where his mark is located. This can only mean one thing: someone like him was near. Aziraphale frantically began searching with only the pressure on his chest to guide him when he found Anathema scooted at the very far corner of an almost crumbling house stroking the mark on her hand. Without preamble, both reached out to the other and desperately looked for an escape from the slaughter. In the end, Aziraphale was caught and dragged by one of the knights, but not before making sure Anathema got away.

They found each other again in Italy in 1412, this time with Newton at her side. His love had been with him, too, having reincarnated as the soldier who caught Aziraphale in the siege. A momentary feeling of familiarity was all it took for the soldier named Arnaud, to hide him in the middle of the massacre, until they were out of reach. It took a little more than a year, but it had been easy to connect with him again and trigger the memories.

He derailed his own thoughts before it drifted to things he’d rather leave buried. So Ezra savoured each bite and settled on making the most out of a lovely time with his friend. “So, what have you planned for us today and will I be sober enough to remember it this time?”

Anathema scrunched up the cupcake paper and threw it in the bin. “Newt will go to some alien convention in a bit, so it’s just the two of us.”

“It’s not just some ‘alien convention’,” he said, quotation marks implied. “It’s a Doctor Who event.”

“Yeah, exactly, alien convention,” she said with a kiss on his cheek and turned to Ezra. “Anyway, don’t worry about it. If our date tonight had a rating, I’d say ‘suitable for teens and up’.”

He picked up the box with the remaining cupcakes and deposited them in the fridge. “Shall I close up shop, then? I’d hate to keep us teens up very late in the night.”

"Sure," she said with a glint in her eye. "I’ll pretend to be a witch so we can shoo them away faster than you can say crépes."

***********************************************

There should be a million and one things running through his head, but at the moment, all he could think about are ducks. 

Crowley was watching The Million Dollar Duck documentary last night about artists vying to win a government-sponsored contest with their paintings of ducks. It started out with a simple, harmless search about the artworks which inevitably shoved him right into a duck-facts-filled rabbit hole. Turns out, ducks are pretty hardcore — having no nerves or blood vessels on their webbed feet, the birds are incapable of registering coldness. And as someone who gets cold very quickly, he was so amazed by this. He even tried dipping his socked feet in cold water just to see if there’s a way he can do it, to no avail of course. Crowley just ended up with wet socks and even colder feet.

What he should be thinking about is the opening of his cafe. Last minute preparations were well underway around him — tables and chairs were being set up and utensils being polished by staff, his aunt Tracy was looking over the first of hopefully many stock deliveries, while his nephew was sat in one of the tables practicing how to fold the napkins with a comical focus only Adam can do. 

Seated by the long bar facing a wide window, Crowley’s fingers are steepled as he watches the commuters going about their day. In between bites of his sausage roll and sips of coffee, he thought about the work ahead. By the end of today, he will have cleaned every inch of this place, and tomorrow, will be open and ready to serve.

He thought about how he’s going to deal with the customers. As much as he wanted to believe that he’ll be one of those servers with a smile that can make you sing We Are the World, his temperament would like to kindly object. So in a rare exercise of wisdom, he decided to ask Tracy and Adam to help him with the convivial part of the operation, to which they were expectedly more than happy to be a part of. 

Then Crowley thought about the phone in front of him that has been ceaselessly vibrating since he woke up. 

It’s so terribly disgusting and very cliche of him to have to deal with a break up just as something important is happening in his life. And it’s so mind-numbingly alternative rock angst to see the messages he’s received go through a one-sided 5 stages of grief in just a matter of hours. 

He adjusted his eyes so he could look at his reflection. 

Pulling out another trope from the dramatics that is his life, he got himself a haircut. Fiery red hair that used to run past his shoulders have been cut to a low fade textured French crop with stylishly tousled locks on top. Dark-tinted glasses cover amber-coloured eyes — perhaps because of the light sensitivity or to hide the custom-made bags under his eyes, either way, it makes him look cool and mysterious and who wouldn't want that in their forties. 

“You can always change your number, you know. Or block his,” Tracy said with an arm full of table cloths. She placed this on the bar table and gave Crowley a tight hug from behind, cradling his head on her shoulder as both stare at their reflections on the glass. “I hope he stubs his pinky toe on the corner of every furniture,” she said chuckling.

“I hope he always wakes up before his alarm rings,” Crowley added.

“I hope he’ll never get the water temperature in the bath right.” 

He grasped at the arm around him and squeezed tight. “I hope I never get to see him again,” he finally said.

Tracy tightened her hold on him, “Change your number, love. We throw away what doesn’t spark joy.” She kissed the top of his head before picking up the table cloths and went back to work. 

Crowley took his phone and scrolled through his contacts to find Luke’s number. “We throw away what doesn’t spark joy,” he repeated with a titter. Swiping to the left, a red Delete button appeared under a hesitant thumb. A simple string of numbers holds within it 5 years of his life. Some of it was good, he supposed — Crowley tried everything for it to be good for them both. In the end, exhaustion turned into scorn, and then that became impetus enough to remove himself from the toxicity of it.

From his peripheral he saw a bright bobbing head moving in between the foot traffic outside the window. He craned his neck following it, oddly wanting to catch a glimpse of the body it was attached to. “That’s another thing ducks have that I don’t — good vision,” he muttered to himself. Unable to see whoever it was, Crowley sat back on his stool.

He could see everyone busy wiping down tables and prepping the counter from their moving reflections on the window. Everything that surrounded him, he owns, from the smallest spoon to that plant at the corner. And tomorrow, his counter will be full of his meticulously plated food and his freshly made coffee that customers will be paying their hard-earned money for. 

Trying to make sense of the buzzer-beater lethargy he found himself in, Crowley tried to dig deeper than the issue of the text messages he's being confronted with. What he's feeling isn’t just about getting over a suffocating relationship. It’s about the family who took him in but made him feel even more of a stranger everyday. About being made to believe that his limitations define him more than his ability to work around them. About shouty people and their loud opinions and the hushed support that became quieter over the years. 

However, something that’s been made very clear to him while he was binging on Nora Ephron films and being all surly over a tub of ice cream is that everything passes. Even he will pass. So he’ll take this — this is his win. One he’s sharing with the people who deserve to see him at his best after taking the brunt of his worse.

“Right, we’re making Marie Kondo proud today.” Crowley thumbed the Delete button, placed his phone on the tabletop with the screen down, and went to help with the cleaning.

***********************************************

It truly rarely happens, but the night really was much tamer than normal.

They went for a nibble at a crêperie near St. James Park, and with the weather being quite good, treated themselves for a walk by the duck pond. Then Anathema brought him to the National Theatre for Cyrano de Bergerac which he thoroughly loved, and ended their trip with a delightful Italian dinner. 

“Hmm this Saltimbocca is just delicious, dear, thank you for bringing me here,” he said, mopping the white wine sauce with the soda bread they were given. “I think I’m ready to order dessert, if you’re up for it.”

“Of course! What is a full meal without dessert — you choose the cake, I’ll pick the wine.”

Ezra settled for a Chocolate Tartufo which Anathema paired with a Cabernet. “Do you remember when the Sbrisolona was first invented?” a forkful of cake makes a beeline for her mouth. 

“We spent a whole week going around Mantua eating the city’s supply of the tort.” Not so much struggling to make a living but incapable of saving money, all four of them decided to move to Lombardy to find trade. They were lucky in that they were able to secure jobs as tutors or hands in artisan workshops, but still opted to live sparsely until their pooled income grew enough to travel comfortably again. The Sbrisolona was one of few dishes they continuously indulged in because it was cheaper. Of course, like all good things the working class enjoyed, the nobles found and made expensive, which thankfully was only popular in Cremona.

“We had fun didn’t we,” Anathema said wistfully. 

Italy had become home base for a while, but they did travel now and then. For all that they discovered and new people of their kind they were able to meet, some of those trips they unfortunately regret taking. However, after having amassed sizable wealth after a few years, they decided to completely split up and explore. Anathema and Newton went back to Portugal after hearing about the galleons bringing in spices, while Aziraphale, having fully retrieved his memories after a bit of a hiccup during a trip to Spain in 1484, followed Antonius’ lead as they went the other way and headed to London.

“Yes, we did,” Ezra said under his breath. At the time, they had more than enough reincarnations between them to make them feel anxious. Each time they met, however, initiating the retrieval of memories happened swiftly. From the stories that reached him from their kind, that’s apparently an oddity. Their decision to move to London was an effort to get their rhythms aligned again. But their years spent there with the great writers of old and the art that's been cropping up around them had been one of his most cherished. And his most dreaded, too.

The day had been going so well, he thought. He’s not about to ruin it because his brat of a brain decided flashbacks are going to happen today. “I think we’re about done, don’t you think? Shall I get the bill?”

“Tal como lo desea, Aziraphale.”

He nodded and called for the waiter. Feeling cross with himself, he turned apologetic eyes to her. “Paenitet me, Anathema. I don’t know what’s happening to me today.”

She reached across and held his hands in between hers, “Nothing to be sorry for, Ezra. We all have those days, and I especially know how bad it can be when...Well, when Newt died I thought it would be next to impossible to find his reincarnation, and even then to set off his memories.” Anathema watched Ezra floundering as he tried to keep the tears from falling. “What I want to say is, if this is what you want, then I’m with you. But you know as well as I that it doesn’t work that way. Not for us.”

“Semper fi protego eum. It’s what’s best for him. And for me, I suppose. I don’t know if I can take it if he doesn’t remember again.”

“Todo saldrá bien, mi amor.” Anathema squeezed his hands once more and said, “Now, to the bookshop? I don’t like to break your books’ curfew on you, they might not want to see me again.”

“Well, they are very strict custodians,” he said with a snicker.

The trip back was a casual affair. Anathema had her arm wrapped around Ezra’s and her head pillowed on his shoulder. Newt texted them that he’s already waiting at the shop. Upon arriving, though, while they did see his car but he wasn’t there beside it. Instead, they spotted him across the street talking to some people.

Ezra and Anathema stepped out of the cab and walked over to him. “Hey, Newt!” she called out to him.

“Oh hey! Did you both have fun?”

“We did! How about you, were the aliens nice to look at?”

He wound an arm around her and kissed the top of her head, “Yeah, they were all very nice to look at.”

“So, who are our new friends here?”

Before Newt could reply, Tracy shot out a hand to Anathema, “I’m Tracy and this is Adam. Looks like we’re going to be neighbours starting tomorrow.”

Edging forward, Ezra waved at them. “Oh, that would be me, Madam Tracy. Your neighbour, I mean. I own the bookshop just over there. I take it this is your cafe?”

“Oh, just Tracy is fine,” Tracy said with an amorous smile. “And not quite. This would be _his_ cafe.” 

As if called on cue, a taller figure comes out of the door. If it had been a scene from a film, one can imagine the person limned by the light from inside the cafe that you can only see their shadow. And then as they fully step out, like a slow reveal, the eyes get drawn to everything about them. 

“Hello,” he said with an unaffected tone. He looked at everyone, but when his gaze fell on Ezra, he looked confused and surprised. The man approached anyway and offered his hand to him, “Anthony J. Crowley. And you must be…?”

Remembering he’s with company, he reached out hesitantly for his hand. “Ezra Fell. It’s my shop right across.”

Anthony shook their hands once. Twice. And let go. 

It took all of Ezra’s self-control not to take his hands again. To rub salt into the wound, his mark — and undoubtedly Newt’s and Anathema’s as well — started pulsating. 

“Oh, look at the time! Got to get back. Early start tomorrow and all.” Anathema snorted as Ezra started backing up, like a man who vaguely knows what a moonwalk is and decided they can do it. “See you all tomorrow, I think,” he said flimsily. 

Ezra quickly retreated and didn’t even try to look back. But if he did, he would’ve seen Anthony’s curious, lingering stare as he whispered, “Yeah, see you tomorrow, Ezra.”

***********************************************

In the dark of his room, Crowley was absently brushing lazy fingers at the mark on his collarbone. 

It had started throbbing the moment he saw all three of them. But it was like a knob had been turned to adjust the intensity the moment he looked at Ezra. Something about him was familiar and he’s been racking his brain since.

He wouldn’t forget someone like that, he’s sure. Hard to forget a man that looked like half the street’s light came from his head of platinum curls.

Crowley can’t find the words to verbalise it properly — but there are remnants of fierce relief deep inside that suddenly flared up and found life again. And he...it must be right to chase the feeling again, isn’t it? It's not for anything, he tried to tell himself, just a curiosity that needed to be quenched. They are going to be near each other anyway, a healthy desire to get to know your neighbours is a socially acceptable behaviour.

“Ugh, I hate this. I feel so warm inside.”

And if his dreams featured a man with a cloud of soft, blonde curls that night — the lapping waves of the coast and the jutting cliffs that look nothing like any he's seen — well, then that's just plain coincidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was borne out of listening to Matt Maeson's Bank on the Funeral album, which has been playing non-stop. The title is one of his songs, and the chapter titles will be lyrics from the other singles. In a way, that's this fic's soundtrack.


	2. I’ve been alone so long, I feel like I’m on the run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Temporary Major Character Death - dies in the olden times, which means they're alive in the story's present day, but just want to mention that now just in case. 
> 
> CW: Blood and Injury - There's also mention of an injury in the Alexandria beat, during a rescue scene.

**_Ephesus, 450 BC_ **

Yes, it was as they said it would be — the Artemision is humbling in its majesty.

Merchants and artisans talked about nothing else but the newly rebuilt temple in Ephesus, that even he couldn’t repress his curiosity any longer. His search had become fruitless for the person who had caused his mark to tremble, and nothing of value was keeping him rooted in Athens as far as he knew, so a change in scenery was in order. 

Antonius travelled with those same merchants for days. He even tried his hand on the trade, learning quickly that he had a knack for it. When your means for survival is your skill in persuasion, who wouldn’t be? Indeed, the traders felt a bit disheartened when he gently refused their offers to join them as they set up their tents.

Looking like a living statue standing on the steps with his slender robed figure and a mop of long fiery red curls, he glanced over the horizon, eyes drawn to the vast Mediterranean Sea and breathed in the light salted air, before turning his back on the noise of the marketplace. 

Antonius entered the temple in reverent silence, not for the goddess herself — although he wouldn’t say that out loud — but for the grandiosity that surrounded him. Standing tall were marbled columns gilded with gold and silver. Exquisite paintings and sculptures filled the space, like those of the Amazon warriors who were believed to have sought protection here. He passed by worshippers of Artemis, their offerings clutched tight between their hands and their prayers a whisper’s edge on their tongues. 

For all of its beauty, however, he found no other compunction to go further in than the thrumming that jolted him out of his reverie. The mark on his collarbone was sending little bolts of lightning to his feet as he quickened his pace towards the inner atrium. There, at the foot of the goddess of the hunt, abundance, and life was who he had been looking for. It was only a faint vibration back in Athens, but there was no denying that it was the same person, now standing with his hand clutched at his chest where his mark might be, staring at him.

“You,” Antonius whispered softly.

“Yes,” came his only reply.

Slowly they move towards each other, careful not to startle the other with sudden movement, the gaze that was fixed on the hand that’s caressing their marks met in quiet awe.

“Aziraphale,” the man with eyes that look like the vast Mediterranean said.

Nodding, he replied, “Antonius. I have been trying to look for you.”

Aziraphale laughed aloud, not minding the questioning glares they were getting. “I might be wrong, but I think we have been chasing each other since Babylon. At least, that was the first time I became aware of you. The first time I felt this mark come to life, really.”

In the face of that smile, one could not help but smile back. He shook his head in amusement and said, “Actually, no, I think I felt my mark in Alexandria. The library, I mean. Were you there?”

His companion grabbed at his arm shocked and disbelieving, “Oh dear, it can’t have been that long?”

“But you were there?” Antonius pushed.

Aziraphale squeezed his arm, “Yes, and I mean to come back sometime. Perhaps…No, nevermind. I do apologise for being difficult. This,” he said, gesturing at their marks, “It’s all new to me. I never really thought I would meet anyone like me.”

He understood this, of course. Wars have come and gone around him, his family lost to the dust, and yet here he was still standing. Existing. There are those who think that immortality is a gift given by the gods to people they deem worthy to walk in the midst of their creation for longer than other people. If it is, then the gods know nothing about the horrors men can conjure for each other, or the pain of being surrounded by death knowing it won’t ever touch you.

“Aliud cura, Aziraphale, omnia recte erunt. We found each other, didn’t we?” Antonius reassured him. The dim atrium tells him that they must be close to eventide. He looked at his new friend, whose thick head of hair makes him look like he’s crowned with a bright light, much like Artemis’ crown. “It’s close to supper. If you’re amenable to it, we can eat with the merchants I’ve travelled with.”

Aziraphale offered him another one of his beaming smiles, “Of course, do lead the way.”

***********************************************

**_Saturday, 2020 CE, 10:45 AM_ **

Lost in the chatter of a full cafe, his hands moved with rote precision. 

_Pistachio Au Lait. Blueberry and Ricotta Cheese Pancakes. Fruit Bowl._

Doing everything intuitively rather than deliberately, that has always been his way, even in something as simple as designing his menu. Crowley spent a whole week just _creating_ , chucking out textbook recipes and Le Cordon Bleu methods out of the figurative window, and just went with what _felt_ right. 

_Black velvet brew. Brioche French Toast. Salmon Tartine._

It sounded reckless, and no matter how much he explained, it will always seem chaotic. But Crowley swears there’s logic in it. A natural harmony he finds when he’s just there, floating, feeling, and trusting that his body will make him do what he needs to do.

_Amour de The. Potato Bacon Danish. Strawberry Cream Cake._

Which is why it’s troubling that he’s sifting through so many tabs in his brain all with the same content. The pulsing on his mark surprised him as soon as he got to Soho, reminding him of cream, blue, and tartan. It’s been a week since meeting his neighbour from across the street and if he’s being very honest with himself, he feels quite offended he hasn’t come to visit the cafe. In a not too subtle way, he’d asked the other shops in their street about this elusive man, and they all describe him as if the Almighty Herself sent him down to Earth to make merry the lives of Men. 

They also said he’s quite the foodie, so he’s sent Adam over with brochures and a small box of Cream Cheese Logs hoping to get him out. But the boy came back with “sending my well wishes and regards” and a “hope I can find the time to visit” as if he’s a relative in the country he’s actively trying to avoid. 

“What do I do with that?” he said between gritted teeth, dark spectacles fogging up either from the steam of the coffee machine or his frustration.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Tracy picked up the Croque Madame and the Double Espresso he finished preparing and called out the name of the customer who ordered it. She turned with a hint of a sly smile which obviously annoyed Crowley even more. “You know,” she said slowly, “No harm in going there yourself instead of making poor Adam do the dirty work for you.”

Crowley glared at her grinning aunt before shifting his gaze to the milk-wet rag on the sink that suddenly looked like it held the mysteries of the universe. He cleared his throat, the last thing he needed was Tracy picking his brain. With a tone as blasé as he could manage, he said, ”I don’t know what you’re talking about. And what do you mean by ‘dirty work’? Adam went to all the shops here just as instructed. We’re just being _neighbourly_.” 

“Yes, of course. It’s not like we’ve sent the boy to one specific neighbour oh, I don’t know, about three times already if I heard him correctly?” She picked up the rag he’d been trying to telepathically hurl across the room and started washing it clean. “Look at the bottom of the counter, love, there should be a box. Why don’t _you_ take that to the nice man across the street? It’s very _neighbourly_ for owners to do that, I think.”

He pulled out the box and saw three neat rows each with five scones, sweet and savoury flavours that are fast becoming popular with the customers, all recipes of which Tracy had a hand in refining. “I know what you’re doing, woman, and I’d like to tell you now that you’re reading me wrong you old pseudo-psychic.”

Wringing the rag dry, Tracy swiveled to face Crowley and fixed him with a kind but firm stare. “Ah, but you think there’s something _to_ read. Go on love, small talk has never caused accidents before.”

Grumbling to himself, he closed the box, removed his apron, and ruffled his short locks to look stylishly rugged. Squinting at his aunt, he moved around the counter and carefully picked up the box. “Try not to burn down the place while I’m out.”

At almost mid-day, the sound of the cafe is down to a comfortable droning. In a few moments, however, it’ll be full of 9-to-5 employees looking to cram as much idle time as they can get in an hour, along with a couple of casual tourists lost in the unique afternoon energy of the street. Crowley opened his doors to find a Soho with a slightly increased saturation and contrast, with just a hint of yellow, red, and blue in certain areas. Under that tamed vividness, there’s a lazy haze that aids to the vibrancy of the place, and a touch of that dramatic vignette, just there in the corners of his vision. 

“Bloody hell,” an out of place whisper. 

Everything blurs into the background until he’s finally in that floating space again, yet there’s something different this time. Orbiting ever closer is that lo-fi beating on his mark.

“Fuck it.” 

Glasses adjusted on its perch, Crowley drew a deep and cleansing breath, and allowed his feet take over.

***********************************************

**_Alexandria, 48 BC_ **

The city they had entered seemed about to break under the pressure of Rome’s attention. And the library, not even a shadow of what it used to be, was but a fragile skeleton that had endured far too much neglect even before Caesar’s civil war reached Alexandria. 

Still, the structure may have declined but the invaluable knowledge it housed was what they came for. 

Antonius had joked about moving into the library with the amount of time Aziraphale wanted to stay there, and was admittedly tempted by the idea. But after walking along the dusty streets, in between high colonnades, he realised that there is so much of Alexandria that demanded to be seen. 

“I think I quite like the smell of the sea,” Antonius remarked once on their way home from the Palaestra for an afternoon of sport. It was a surprise to both of them that Aziraphale had a talent for wrestling, while Anthony opted to admire from the stands.

Aziraphale looked at Antonius amused, “It _is_ rather refreshing, especially after spending time in the gymnasium, don’t you think?”

His companion barked a laugh. “No, what I meant to say is, we've been going on these trips on wagons and asses, maybe it’s time we consider what’s beyond here.” 

“You mean board a ship and sail away?”

He grabbed at Aziraphale’s arm to stop them from walking, a fizzing eagerness mounting even as he stepped carefully in front of him, “Yes, exactly. The sea looks vast and unending from where we are, but think what we can discover when we’re actually out there?”

Images of foreign lands and exotic creatures he’s only heard about flicker in his mind’s eye. He never once thought to chase what is boundless and expansive, and the possibilities thrilled him. Another memory popped up, one of a young Aziraphale in the theatron sitting in the middle of a bewitched crowd being regaled with tales of kingly feasts, of wine and meat and fruit that were not of his homeland.

“Alright, let’s do it! Progrediamur oportet in spe!,” he said, excited. “Although, I admit to a bit of trepidation. I’ve travelled miles, but never beyond lands my feet can’t reach.”

Amber eyes that seemed to look brighter than the oil lamps that littered the streets met his. Antonius offered both his hands, inviting Aziraphale to take them. Once he did, both took deep breaths, then he said, “I’m scared, too, and that’s the best part. We don’t know what’s out there. We might not even make it to land!”

“Oh, now dear, I don’t like how excited you got there,” Aziraphale protested.

Eyes crinkling at the corner with a mirth he couldn’t quite tamper down. “You know what I mean. We’re not bound by anything, not by death. And I know, I know what’s running in your head,” he said, squeezing Aziraphale’s hands. “We don’t actually know if we can die or not, and I’m with you, I don’t quite want to find out. But apart from this perpetual existence, we have _time_. All the time in the world, Aziraphale, and we should use it.”

And how else can one respond but with an ardent nod and smile of your own? He had been keen on spending time in the library not only for the pleasure of it but to study. In all that he’s read, he’s found no reference to people like them at all. Oh, he’d like to believe they’re still human, and if you consider only the physical and the mental, so far that’s not been disproved. But why are they marked? Is immortality just one aspect of it? Are there more of them?

Too many questions, and it seemed even the most extensive library can’t provide the answers. 

They continued their stroll feeling more refreshed than they ever did now that they have another trip to look forward to. The night would have ended perfectly had that discussion been the last thing that happened to them.

Aziraphale and Antonius had been a safe distance from the docks, but the thick, dark pillars of smoke loom threatening above them. 

Great military minds in Caesar’s retinue determined to defend the city with fire from an oncoming attack. However, as is the nature of things no battle strategy can’t rightfully control, it had spread to the city.

Shrill screams pierced through their shock, and there was no hesitation, both men sprinted towards where the fire was worse and started hauling people out of harm’s way. Antonius came out of one of the houses carrying a swaddled child in one arm, while the other was around the mother’s waist helping her walk. Aziraphale was about to approach when the loud echoing sound of a building collapsing took his attention. 

A section of the library was gone, and with it were scrolls no one will get to read again. Aziraphale would have given himself a moment to mourn that lost until he saw the scribes struggling to escape. With one last glance back to Antonius, who nodded with understanding, Aziraphale ran towards them.

It took longer than he would’ve liked and a lot of heavy lifting, but once everyone was accounted for, he hurried back to where he last saw his friend. The streets were almost empty since most of the survivors have made their way on the other side of the city, and yet there’s still no sign of him. He approached the crowd still watching the fire consume the docks and managed to find the woman Antonius helped. 

“I’m sorry dear, but I was wondering if you’ve seen my friend?” he almost shouted over the awful din of the blazing fire behind him.

Bleary eyes tried to focus on his face while her baby was held tight on her chest. “Oh, oh he told us to leave him. I tried to help him, I really did. But I have to think of the child.”

He ran as fast as his legs could muster praying to all the gods he knew that Antonius was safe. Fear wasn’t foreign to him, but he found that he was gripped with something far worse. The fire hadn’t yet died down and so all he could see was burnt rubble and smoke. “Antonius! Can you hear me!” he screamed.

Aziraphale searched all the buildings he could enter before he finally saw a dark figure lying on the ground just in front of the granary, something heavy on top of him. “Antonius!”

A huge section of the wall had fallen on his friend. Face down in the dirt, the troubling sound of hitching breath and a pool of crimson around his head. Without missing a beat, Aziraphale grasped at the wall and started lifting. He won’t be able to tell you where he found the strength to get that wall off the ground and pushed, falling on its side with a heavy thud.

Immediately, he cradled Antonius’ limp body and gently shook him. “Please, Antonius. Please wake up.” He touched his cheek, wiping the dirt from his face. “Please, my dear, open your eyes.”

Fluttering eyes had never been a blessed sight. He continued whispering to him when Antonius slowly lifted his hand to cover Aziraphale’s on his cheek. “Hey,” he struggled to say in between wheezing breaths. Wincing as he tried to swallow, Antonius squeezed his hand with all the strength he had left. “Leave this place. Promise me,” he said quietly.

“Stop it, _we’ll_ leave Alexandria. Now come on, I can carry you out of here.” Not even an inch off the ground yet, Antonius screamed in pain as he was being lifted up. With panicked eyes making quick search of his body, Aziraphale saw his leg bleeding profusely, bone jutting out in various places.

“Aziraphale, please. It hurts,” Antonius whimpered. 

“Let me get help, then,” he replied desperately and was about to run off when another squeeze on his hand stopped him.

There’s that smirk he’s grown so fond of. But instead of the usual warmth, he can only feel a stabbing pain in his heart. “No, Antonius. You can’t do this to me.”

“Salvum manere, Aziraphale.” 

Life slowly left him as if it, too, was trying to hold on to his friend. 

They can die, he’s been made very aware of it and wished he’d never known. But as he felt hands trying to drag him away as Caesar’s soldiers marched in, he found that he’s dangerously in desperate need of the same release.

***********************************************

**_Saturday, 2020 CE, 11:15 AM_ **

Food isn’t complicated.

Ezra believed that what complicates people’s dining experience is simply preference. If you’re the type who gawk at oysters because of their ‘snotty quality’, then you won’t appreciate one that’s been carefully seasoned or baked with three kinds of cheese.

Books are much the same, it only turns people off because there are those who have a tendency to keep to the genres they’re comfortable with. An epic fantasy reader might scoff at a regency romance lover, a mystery thriller enthusiast might walk past satirical science fiction. 

This is why he’s thankful he didn’t have too much of a discriminating taste. He can’t imagine going through life that way, especially one that’s as long as his. That’s not to say that he isn’t fussy, but eclecticism and having standards were never mutually exclusive. Ezra will try any dish, will read any genre, but he’ll get to choose where he’s getting it.

These were his thoughts as he bit on the last Hazelnut Bomboloni, the Umberto Eco he was reading momentarily forgotten on his desk. Still irresistibly light and soft even after a day since they were brought to him. Dried apricot was baked into the dough for that smooth and musky taste, and it goes perfectly with that decadent hazelnut filling with just a hint of rum for that welcome heat. 

“Because of course everything he makes tastes divine,” he said sighing heavily into the bookshop. He recalled a time in the French countryside when for a day they did nothing but sample all the dishes they could possibly get, all the while Antonius was boasting that he could replicate each one. _Was it the 13th or 14th century?_

Regardless, Anthony’s pastries have ruined all the other bakeries for him at present, and he was certain that he’d want more. 

Avoiding another bout of deep yearning, Ezra dusted off the crumbs from his hands and delicately dabbed his napkin on sugar crusted lips, then stood up from his desk to entertain — or dissuade — his shoppers.

Warm light cascaded uninterrupted into the cosy crampedness of his shop, and while this has forced him to opt for a more casual ensemble instead of his usual layers — no coat and vest, rolled up sleeves, and just the tight hold of the tartan bowtie — well, to be comfortable means to feel vulnerable sometimes. And so in such high spirits, he happily let go of some of his books. Never priced editions, of course.

He was talking to a customer about the Austen novels and their adaptations when the familiar jingle of the bell rang. Excusing himself before the discussion became heated, he rushed towards the door only to trip over his stubborn feet and fall on the arms of his visitor. Eyes quickly raking up from leather platform shoes, knee-tattered jeans, and a dark maroon long-sleeved shirt that felt very soft under his hands. “I’m thoroughly sorry, I di—Anthony?”

“Hiya,” dark sunglasses looming over him like a sentinel inspecting its prey, betrayed only by a beguiling smile that promised he’s more friend than foe. Flushed red and apologetic, Ezra quickly pushed himself off and stepped back. “Didn’t think sending Adam over was very friendly of me, so...I thought I’d pop in, finally.”

“Nonsense, Anthony, you’ve been sending all those delicious treats my way when _I_ should have been the one to reach out. I apologise for being rude.” Ezra’s hands are wringing nervously in front of him as he silently chastised himself for forgetting to send something, _anything_ to give in return. “Well, no matter,” pushing down his embarrassment, Ezra cleared his throat, and with an earnest smile extended his arms. “Welcome to Greek Street, Anthony.” 

Worried as he was, Ezra was slightly taken aback by a reddening Anthony, whose eyes were peeking over glasses, perhaps curious about what made its owner blush. “It’s quite alright. I know how busy it can get. Well, I know now, I guess. Seriously, no obligation, Ezra.”

They glanced at each other awkwardly, but this was a dance they’ve done numerous times, and oh how he _missed_ it. Uncertainty brings an odd rush, and the first years they spent together definitely hit them with it like a freight train. Tiptoeing around each other, guessing what the other thought, prolonging conversations, bringing gifts, doing favours — all of which lead to an inevitable but glorious outcome.

And this is exactly what he was avoiding. Ignoring him wasn’t proving to be feasible, their shops are literally right in front of each other. But just like what Anathema said, things just work differently with them. Once their kind meet, especially ones they’ve made a bond with as friends or as lovers, it’s like the universe finds a way for them to keep meeting.

If he can keep things _friendly_ , however, just a little over an arm’s reach, perhaps it would be fine?

“How are thi—” 

“I was just wo—”

Chuckling, Ezra gestured for Anthony to speak first. 

“I wanted to ask what you thought about the pastries? They’re not bland, I hope. Tracy had been insisting I needed to put in extra things, and while I’m fairly confident they all taste good, I can’t help but worry, you know.” he said, scratching his head in that bashful way he always did. _Yes, that’s very him._

Ezra clapped his hands in delight. “Oh they’re the most delectable, my dear. I’ve just finished off the last Bomboloni! Baking in dried earthy fruits to cut through the sweetness of the rum and the hazelnut, very clever, indeed.”

Anthony threw his head back laughing. _That didn’t change, either._

“Glad you liked it,” he said smiling at him.

There’s a unique sadness that follows immortality, and Ezra can chart the many ways that smile almost made him forget about the ephemeral world around them. That’s only marred by memories of that same smile being the last thing he saw when he’s reminded that they’re not invincible, the only thing he craved to see all these years, even now as he’s actively denying himself of it.

“Oh, I have something for you.” With fingers looped around sturdy strings, Anthony held out a medium-sized pastry box. “It’s flavoured scones. Tracy said you might like them.”

Ezra carefully took the box and held it with both hands as though it were fragile. His own hand lightly going over the hard twine and then to the almond brown box that’s still hot to the touch. _Freshly baked..._

He must have been silent for a long time because the next thing he saw was Anthony waving his hand in front of his face with that too pleased grin, “Are you okay, Ezra?”

“Jolly good, dear,” came his chagrined reply. Before things can get fiddly again, and really, before he lost confidence, he decided to trudge on and said, “Anyway, I’m beginning to think that before the month ends I’ll have ordered everything that you have on offer if what you’ve given me so far is anything to go by.”

“Oh, that’s good to hear because,” the glasses slipped on his nose a little so that Ezra could see those familiar golden-brown eyes searching frantically for the right words to say under his dark tinted glasses. “I was wondering, well, if you’re free for dinner, maybe I could cook for you in the cafe. Have a proper conversation with a proper meal,” he said with that hopeful smile of his, which Ezra can only return with a fond and wistful one. _I wonder if I’m still reading you correctly, Antonius._

At the back of his mind, he can’t help but think that this is just what Anthony’s meant to do, his physiology and psychology urging him to act. Ezra can see the mark on his collarbone, the same place it has always been, and he’s sure there’s a deep thrumming there, just as there is one now with the one on his chest, that’s almost negligible now that they’re close to each other. Bonded immortals have a unique vibration to them, and he wonders if that’s the only reason why Anthony even decided to come to him.

_Too many complications._

Begrudgingly he’s telling himself that this is fine. He can at least keep watch, but nothing more. One friendly dinner. One neighbourly chat.

“Of course,” he replied with a conceding tone he couldn’t quite hide. “I’d love to.”

***********************************************

**_Rome, 41 AD_ **

“I’ll have a jug of whatever you think is drinkable,” he drawled.

A haze of sweltering heat that seemed to rise from the cobbled streets forced him to make a detour to cool down before heading home. It was still early evening and yet half the population looked to have the same idea judging by the cramped popina. And so adjusting his toga so that his arms are bared to the small breaths of wind, he sat at the counter and nursed his house brown.

Closing his eyes momentarily, he allowed the droning of the patrons to wash over him until they’re all just buzzing in the background. 

Antony held up his hands in front of him and saw faint red marks from scrubbing them clean after the day’s work. His father had always said that craftsmen are never in danger of losing business, not even during the most tumultuous periods. “If there’s anything Romans can’t live without other than wine, it’s elegant art in good times and a reliable weapon in bad times. Even the mediocre ones seem to blossom when the Senate is in one of its childish squabbles,” Lucius once lectured, who anyone would rightly qualify as one of the finest artisans in the city. Observing that his son had a gift for oration, the old man once feared that he wouldn’t want to inherit the business, but nevertheless prepared the funds for his education should he express an interest in politics. He was rather elated when Antony preferred honest and frank work than the complicated machinations of Roman government.

It had been 3 years since Lucius died. His father said he cared very little for it, but Antony knew he would’ve been delighted to see that the family reputation is still intact.

Shaking his head, he flagged the bartender and ordered dinner, “Anything you’re cooking at the moment is fine.”

“You’re not in the mood to be annoying today, I see,” she said, plating cuts of meat, bread, cheese, and fruits.

“Oi, I’m never annoying. Not to my favourite bartender, at least,” he said with a smirk.

Pushing his plate a little haphazardly to him, “Aaaand there it is. Enjoy your dinner, Antony. Try not to choke.” 

In truth, talking to people for most of the day had put him off socialising tonight. He’d very much like to keep dinner a casual affair. Silently thanking whichever god is listening for the humble feast and the much needed respite — more out of habit than belief — he tucked into his food with a satisfied grin.

Then a sudden force almost pushed him off the counter, a spasming that’s oddly coming from his right shoulder sending jolts to his whole body. He touches his collarbone. _My mark_.

He had asked his mother why he was the only one who had it in the family, to which she gave a very Roman reply: it was the gods that gave it to him.

From a subtle vibration it gradually became thrilling shocks of electricity as the moment went on.

“Are you alright, Antony?” the bartender asked.

His breath coming in short gasps. “I’m fine, Cassia. The drink must not be settling well in my stomach,” he said feebly. Antony grabbed at the bar steeling himself when he heard a voice, just above a whisper that he almost didn’t hear.

“Antonius.”

One word and it knocked the breath out of him as the thrumming had intensified. Antony turned around in his seat to find a man with a short cropped hair whiter than his toga, stormy blue-grey eyes locked on to his golden ones. It was like looking at your opposite. No, looking at a negative image of you, a personification of your inverse. “I’m sorry?” was his quiet reply.

“I can’t believe it.” The man approached him carefully, brows furrowed as though he’s troubled by the sight of him. It wouldn’t be the first curious stare he’s got, of course. The red hair alone gives people pause. “You’re alive...how?”

He stared at the stranger, bewildered for a while, then chuckled, “Have I died and not known about it?”

It was the wrong thing to say, apparently, as the man continued to stand there with misty eyes that looked out of place on that amiable face. However, he can’t ignore that tugging in his brain, a familiarity that had put him at ease as soon as he saw him. _There’s also the mark._ The vibrations settled to something comfortable, but it’s still there, beckoning him to stand and draw close to the stranger.

“I apologise, you’re obviously troubled. My name is Antony. Close enough to Antonius, I guess,” he said, offering his friendliest smile. 

To the man’s credit, Antony can see that he was close to sobbing, but he reached out and poked his chest. “Oh lord, you _are_ real.”

He pulled out the chair beside him and gestured for the man to sit, “What’s your name, strange man poking people on their chests?”

“Aziraphale,” came his reply, still looking quite lost and slightly frightened of him even as he sat down. 

Antony flagged down the bartender again and ordered a drink and a meal for his companion. Now that he’s only a hair strand away from him, that deep feeling that he knew him has flared even as the pulses on his mark have become negligible. Even that name — Aziraphale — seemed to call memories he obviously didn’t live. 

“Have...have we met before?” he asked.

Aziraphale took a long sip of his drink before answering with his head bowed in between slumping shoulders. “No, I guess not.” Wringing trembling hands in the fleeting silence must have helped him resolve some inner dilemma, because Aziraphale brought the jug to his lips again and downed its contents in one go, then hastily pushed the chair and made to stand. “I’m sorry for disturbing your evening. I think...I think I should leave.”

Quickly dropping coins on the bar, Aziraphale immediately turned around heading out of the popina. Antony almost threw his money on Cassia too, shouting apologies to her as he chased down the blonde man. 

“Hey, wait! What happened there?” Still frustratingly hot outside, his feet have decided to lead his brain. When Aziraphale turned a corner, he broke into a sprint so he could catch up, even when all logic was telling him he really had no business following. “Please, just wait!”

With every footfall, another memory is dredged that wasn’t familiar to him. Of statues and the sea. Of mountains of books. Of endless fire. In each one, there was Antony, or a version of him at least, with this stranger who’s becoming less elusive by the second.

Sending a silent gratitude to the drunken city planners who engineered a labyrinthine streetway, Aziraphale ended up leading them to a dead end. Turning to face Antony, he could see that Aziraphale was weeping now. “I was wrong, alright? I thought you were my friend.”

Careful not to startle him, Antony approached gingerly, his hands were up in front of him as though he was quelling a frightened animal. “I’ve never met you, yes. But why does it feel like I know you?” On unsteady feet, Aziraphale raised an arm to wipe his tears and held both hands protectively close to his chest. Sombre blue eyes gazed at him intently, and Antony found that he didn’t much like that sadness on him. “Please, just...don’t go. I just want to know.”

“Me, too,” Aziraphale whispered. “I want to know, too.”

Feeling hopeful, Antony stuck his hand out to him. “Come on, Aziraphale. Let’s start again.”

The touch he gave Aziraphale was one Antony usually reserved for his most fragile work. Instead of feeling bothered by this, there’s only a welling of comfort and relief, like seeing an old friend survive a long winter’s war, and it’s bound to consume him where he stood. “I hear Petronius’ restaurant has opened. They say he does great things with oysters. I’ve never had oysters before, and I’d very much like it if you can try it with me?”

A fond smile as Aziraphale squeezed his hand, “Yes. I’d like that, too.”

***********************************************

**_Saturday, 2020 CE, 7:00 PM_ **

“A 4-course meal? Must have been a good conversation,” Tracy teased over a cup of hot chamomile, watching him flounder over his prep table. 

Crowley wisely chose not to dwell on whatever compelled him to invite the man over because it was quickly pushed away by panic. Even before the very brief conversation ended, his mind was already rifling through what he’d prepare for their dinner. Which soup Ezra would prefer, what appetizer to serve, and does he have the wine to unite all the dishes together. It’d be an understatement to say that Crowley is “losing his shit”, as Adam said. He isn’t, really. It’s more he’s “losing his fucking mind”, but his companions didn’t need to know that. 

The almost empty cafe seemed to echo every pulsing beat of his heart, the walls shaking with every rhythmic thrum from his mark. He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him, where these feelings are coming from, or why he’s so gung-ho about doing something about it. But Crowley found that he wanted nothing else but to plunge deep into it.

_Clam chowder. Wild mushroom salad. Crispy Duck Confit. Chocolate Truffle Cake. Malbec._

There are reservations, of course. Tracy can continue to poke fun, but he’s not really after a relationship at the moment. More like an acquaintance, a friendship if tonight ends well. Presently, he’s more curious than enamoured, so to add the complication of a possible _fling_ might ruin it. This feels something more precious than that, he thinks. Anything and everything else that comes from this will just have to run its course naturally. He won’t be accused of going too fast.

There’s also the matter of the pulsating mark. _What is this? Why now? And why him?_

“Everything you need is prepped and ready. Just mix them all together and plate, alright?” he said from the other side of the counter, hands full of plates and glasses. Most of his staff — only four other people to help with the foot traffic — have been sent home an hour early. This means dinner will be served by Adam and Tracy, both looking at him with that vexing smugness. He looked at the clock hanging over the kitchen door. _Five minutes._ “Right, I’ll finish setting up, and if you’re all quite done leering over your tea cups, please start with the packing up so we can close right after.”

Crowley chose a table that’s well away from the sparse crowd for privacy, but not too secluded that Ezra would feel uncomfortable. Staying true to the cosy modern feel of the place, the tables made from reclaimed wood didn’t have ironed out cloths on them, but a simple grey biodegradable paper. He was sure Ezra wouldn’t mind since this isn’t exactly the Ritz, but he thought that he could at least make an effort on the table setting. Being laid out carefully were his most elegant earthenware blue plates and bowls, and the shiniest glasses and utensils. 

As soon as he placed the artfully folded napkin on the table, he heard the door chime, following immediately is that bright, lilting voice. 

“Good evening!”

Everything started looking dim as soon as Ezra came in, as though the cafe’s bright lights bound themselves to his thick, platinum blonde waves, and the pastels and whites of his interior made way for hazel blue eyes. With the beginnings of a short beard, the man looked comfortable in his russet-coloured three-piece suit and the tartan bow tie that Crowley is starting to believe was his trademark. 

Before Crowley could get his feet to move, Tracy and Adam unfortunately moved faster than they ever did when the cafe was busy and intercepted him.

“Hello, dearie! Nice to see you again,” an overly enthusiastic greeting from his aunt.

“Hi Ezra! How were the scones? Uncle Crowley told me he brought some to you,” Adam declared, the most excited he’s heard his nephew all week.

Ezra surprisingly took the ambush quite well, clasping hands in front of him and regarded his aunt and nephew with nothing but affability. “They were simply scrumptious. If I didn’t have dinner with your uncle tonight, I’m sure I’d have eaten the whole box!” he said with a light chuckle.

“Alright you two, we don’t want our guest missing supper,” interrupting what he knew would be a full blown interrogation. “Ezra,” turning, lightly touching his arm to lead him by the arm into the cafe, “Let’s get comfortable.”

As soon as they were seated, both took a moment to simply _be._ The weight of awkwardness was somehow absent in the moment and replaced by something entirely different, like contentment, finality, a feeling that the universe has given this meeting its mark of approval.

Not so much as breaking their silent regard of each other, but aiding the energy’s ebb and flow, Ezra said, “I noticed they don’t call you by your name. Do you not prefer to be called ‘Anthony’?”

“I knew you were going to pick up on that,” he answered with a grin. Crowley picked up his water glass and saw his reflection, catching a glimpse of his shades and disheveled hair. It might not be good manners to dine with a person you want to be friends with wearing glasses. A hesitant hand reached for them, folding carefully and hooking onto his shirt. “It sounds too formal, I think. _Anthony_ . I like it, but not as an everyday name. _Crowley_ , however, now that sounds very laid back. And snakey.”

“Snakey?” Ezra said, smirking.

“Yeah, I quite like snakes,” he replied, pointing on his right temple where a coiling snake was inked black on his freckled skin. “And, Crowley’s usually what I prefer my friends to call me.”

“Oh, I suppose I should stick to ‘Anthony’ before I level up to ‘Crowley,” a shy smile with a hopeful undertone.

“Actually, I’d really like it if you can call me ‘Crowley’,” there’s no reason not to quell Ezra's worries. “I’ve been sending you baked goods for the past week, I think we’re there. We’ve reached that point,” he said, cracking up when the other man let out an amused snort, almost out of place in that fuddy duddy exterior.

Dinner went just as what anyone would expect from two people who have just met. Respectful without being too boring. Casual without crossing boundaries. Uneventful, but not too much that they wouldn’t want to meet again. 

In short, Crowley thought it went perfectly.

But in between “what are your interests?” and “who’s your favourite Ninja Turtle?” there’s a longing that started creeping from his toes to the ends of his hair, and it wanted to be addressed. This conversation felt like any other conversation with a person you’re still starting to get to know, and yet it felt like one he’s had countless times before. Like he could anticipate the answers Ezra’s going to give, the expressions he’s going to make.

Even the way the man appreciated food sounded to him like an experience he’s indulged in for thousands of years. Oh that unadulterated moan of pleasure from food he prepared isn’t something he’d ever forget. The existence of his own plate kept edging out of his mind with Ezra’s every bite. Crowley smiled at a particular way he hummed around a bite of the cake, and no less than an adorable wiggle as he gulped it down with the wine.

“What?” Ezra asked. “Have I got chocolate on my face?”

He cut a piece on his own slice and brought it to his lips, still smiling. “Nah, you’re good.”

Once their plates and glasses were cleared, Crowley offered to walk Ezra back to the bookshop. They were quiet during the short walk but if the fond glances they shared with each other were any indication, he’s sure Ezra enjoyed the night just as much as he did.

“Well, this is me,” punctuated by the jingling keys he’s taking out of his pocket. “I had a lovely time, Crowley. Dinner is as heavenly as I thought it would be.”

_As heavenly as he thought it would be._

Crowley determined to process that information in Sherlockian detail later. “I’m very happy you did.” He watched him push the door open, and about halfway through, turned back to look at him. Ezra looked almost sad under the dim lighting of the street, a melancholy smile hung on his lips, and a deep languishing breath.

“Good night, Crowley,” he said quietly. 

Confused as he was from the change of mood, he shoved down the anxiety that wanted to flow back up from his stomach. “Good night, Ezra.”

With a final wave, feet pushing away from the steps of the bookshop, he retreated back to his cafe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been re-reading this one for so long, I'm sure I have errors. I'll rectify after a day with fresh eyes haha


	3. Sweating all your sins out, putting all your thoughts back together.

_Through the haze of his own tears, he could see him shaking at the other end of the room, hunched down at the corner on the floor with his hands covering his head. Arnaud — who was also Antonius and Antony — rushed from the bed to Aziraphale in two long strides and knelt in front of him, taking hold of his trembling form to get the man’s attention._

_“It’s done,” he said sniffling, trying to wipe the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his shirt without letting him go. “Je vais bien, Aziraphale. Rien de mal n'est arrivé — see, I’m alright, mon amour. Please,” voice tight with effort not to quiver even as his body trembled. “Look at me, my love, please.”_

_They’ve only been in Berlin for 3 months when Arnaud woke with a fever. His body ached with a pain he couldn’t quite discern. Immobile as he was, it was his mind that ran restless. Aziraphale had looked troubled when it started, and did everything that he could to care for him. But his body wracked with this strange illness for longer than he was used to, and each day Aziraphale became more frightened, retreating inward and falling silent._

_Until this morning._

_It was an onslaught, violent, like falling into a rushing river and all he could do was let himself be taken. Arnaud woke convulsing on the bed while Aziraphale tried to find a way to help him, even knowing full well that he couldn’t. When it was finally done, tear-streaked eyes opened and blinked at the ceiling, until pained whimpers broke through the haze._

_“Aziraphale, come my love, let me help you up.”_

_Arnaud led them to the bed and arranged themselves so that Aziraphale is leaning back on the headboard and he’s kneeling in front him. The pub below them is as still and solemn as this moment, doubtless that it was aware of how fragile its tenants are._

_He moved to hold Aziraphale’s head close to his chest so the other man could feel his heartbeat. Fingers moving on their own accord on the other’s hair, meant to ground him as new tears fall freely down his cheeks. “Je suis tellement désolé, mon amour,” Arnaud’s hold was unyielding as he dropped his head to rest on top of those soft curls. “You were brave for the both of us yet again. My valiant man. My angel.”_

_“No,” a soft whimper from below. Aziraphale’s hands went to the small of his back, clutching tight on his shirt. “No, I failed.” He moved his head out of Arnaud’s grasp so he could look up and meet his eyes, “I let you die again, Arnaud. I’m so sorry.”_

_“None of that,” he replied with a tender smile. He bent down to kiss his forehead, his red-rimmed eyes, his cheeks. Arnaud adjusted his position so that he sat on Aziraphale’s thighs with his legs wound tight around him. “It was a famine, Aziraphale. I’d been spoiled rotten in Rome before I met you. Even more so when I did.” Arnaud lifted the hand that wears his signet ring — a gift from a previous life, the best those artisan hands could offer. “I simply wasn’t made for it.”_

_Aziraphale’s pleading eyes looked at him as he shook his head vehemently. “We shouldn’t have left Rome. You wouldn’t have suffered if I hadn’t insisted we travel.”_

_“What? And miss out on seeing the world?” He cupped his cheek to make him stop and swiped a tear with his thumb. “You know I can be pig headed when I want to,” a wide, comforting grin forming on his face. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you blaming yourself for something you couldn’t control, and instead,” he put his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and leaned forward to nuzzle at his nose. “I’ll coil around you so close you’d have to make an effort to break free.”_

_Golden, amber eyes full of mirth locked on to bright blue ones, silently asking for permission. Aziraphale tightened his hold, the hands on his back pushing him closer to his chest. “My angel of radiance,” with closed eyes he whispered in the scant space between their lips, and..._

**BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!**

The blaring sound of his alarm felt like a hammer to his head that did nothing to quell his anger at being woken up. Still desperately chasing the last hazy images of his dream, Crowley rubbed at his face annoyed and frustrated. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said with a sleep-strained voice. 

An arm shot out from under the duvet, reaching blindly for the phone on the nightstand. Squinted eyes spotted the grey Stop button but his languid thumb kept missing. Grumbling expletives under his breath, Crowley sat up and slammed his whole hand repetitively on the phone until it stopped beeping.

He took a moment to reign himself in, not about to ruin his day when it’s barely started at 8:00 AM.

Since their dinner, his dreams had become both vivid and vague. One night he’d be sitting on a cliffside and looking out into the most glorious view of the ocean, on the next he’d be hiding from oncoming soldiers marching into the city. He’d be wearing clothes that look like from days of yore, eating food he was sure he hadn’t tasted yet. And for all of these, the one constant is Ezra. Ghosting his fingers over his lips, Crowley could have sworn he felt the phantom pressure of the other man’s breath and couldn’t tamper down the shiver. “You old man, you idiot, this isn’t the time to have a crush,” he muttered while he stood stretching, waking sleep stiff muscles and sluggish brain cells.

Padding heavily to the bathroom, a surprised yelp as socked feet met cold tiles, the last tendrils of sleep left him and neatly folded itself back to his bed. Crowley took his shirt off, threw it in the direction of the hamper, and paused in front of the mirror. A disheveled haired man with crusty eyes looked back at him. “Eh, it’s just a happy crush, innit? Nothing wrong with that.” 

He reached across the counter for his toothbrush, hands moving by rote as he squeezed a dollop of toothpaste and proceeded to watch himself on the mirror brushing his teeth. 

There’s one major detail about the dreams that confuses him every time. Obviously, the other man has the appearance and voice of one Ezra Fell. But Crowley — or at least his avatar in the dream, he still hadn’t seen himself in it — would call him _Aziraphale_. It rhymes, he supposed. It was just odd that even the strange name sits well on his tongue and sounded nothing less than accurate. 

Shaking his head, he finished with a wide, shark-like grin to inspect his teeth. “Squeaky clean, and,” he puffed air onto a cupped hand in front of his mouth, “Minty fresh.” Satisfied with his work, he undressed, put on music from his phone, and stepped into the shower. 

Apart from sleeping, bathing was a luxury he had always made sure to indulge in. The almost ritualistic way of putting on shampoo, rubbing the skin red with soap and loofah, rinsing and toweling down helps quiet the mind. There’s no need to rush when the careful stream of water is a welcome pressure on his body, the steam vanishing everything around him. More importantly, it’s when he was at his most relaxed. Crowley reached for the shampoo bottle as the first notes of a familiar song bounced around the walls of the bathroom, and was tempted to sing with it. 

“Mamaaaaaa, just killed a maaaaaan. Put a gun against his hand, pull my trigger now he’s dead.” 

Thick foam formed as he lathered his hair with the scent of wild strawberries. _I spoke French in this dream. Romantic. But I could’ve been saying anything. I could’ve been saying butts and balls and it would sound romantic in French._

“Mamaaaaa, oooooooh. I don’t want to die. Sometimes I wish I’d never been born at aaaaaaalllll.”

Making quick work of rinsing the shampoo, he followed it with a generous blob of conditioner and started massaging his scalp. _Dream Ezra said “I let you die again.” Again...Is it dying ‘figuratively’? Like emotionally dying? How bad was that famine that my dramatic ass made a big deal of dying ‘figuratively’?_

“I see a little silhouetto of a man. Scaramouch scaramouch will you do the fandango. THUNDERBOLTS OF LIGHTNING VERY VERY FRIGHTENING ME.”

His soap was one of those organic oatmeal types which he begrudgingly always buys even as he thought it a bit pretentious. _My name’s Arnaud in this one. Yesterday, I was Antonius._

“BE-EELZEBUB HAS THE DEVIL PUT ASIDE FOR ME. FOR MEEE. FOR MEEEEEEEE!”

Humming the next lines, Crowley got out of the shower and continued with his morning routine with a few moisturisers here and a bit of product there. What gave him pause, however, was the mark on his collarbone. Crowley leaned toward the mirror to get a better look. 

Birthmarks are normal, most people have it. His mark, though, looks nothing like the irregular shape of one — a raised scar the length of his pinky finger, shaped in a neat semi-circle at the fringe of a smaller full circle, beside two not-quite parallel lines — an oddity that has more than once fueled much ridicule when he was younger. “You,” pointing at his dark pink imprint, “Have given me more to think about than anything that has happened to me so far. And I admire that.”

A succession of dings interrupted his music.

Crowley’s phone was going off, and with every notification he became more wary to pick it up. He could see that it was his aunt Tracy, most likely sending updates about what’s going on in the cafe. She also got into the habit of texting him about Ezra lately, even going to the effort of crossing the street and asking him about his day so that Crowley could “perhaps invite him again”, as though they weren’t busy running a shop as well. 

“It has been a week…” he mused. He thought the dinner was a success, but that morose, wistful look on Ezra when they said their goodbyes made him doubt another offer would be welcome. Every day he would catch a glance of Ezra puttering about in his shop, wondering if he, too, would be looking at the cafe across from him. 

_Best put that under Things Not To Tell Tracy._

He elected to ignore the messages when the notification centre turned into a call screen. Quickly swiping the phone from the countertop, Crowley answered the call and was surprised by the frantic voice at the other end of the line. 

“Hey, hey, calm down. Deep breaths, Tracy.” He could hear the clinking of bracelets as he imagined her bracing herself on a table while getting her nerves in order. “Now, what’s got you twisted this early?”

One word. One _name._

Crowley ran out of his bathroom, got dressed, and rushed out of the door. 

“That bellend just doesn’t know when to bloody give up!” he growled, thoughts of dreams and oddities dissipating as he drove his Bentley right into London traffic.

***********************************************

A surgeon’s hands must be careful and precise. They must be calm — worrying wastes time. They must discern when a limb is worth saving or if it would be better for the body if it’s removed. They must be neat — a sloppy work table invites irreversible problems. 

Such things are also true for antiquarian book enthusiasts. 

A preservationist works under the same ideal as doctors: to do no harm, crafting a shell to protect books from elements that will quicken its deterioration. A conservationist will dabble in a bit of chemistry — mixing dyes or deacidifying — to repair a book or even alter its structure to protect it from further damage. A restorationist will use a book’s original materials and bind them together carefully using techniques hundreds of years old. 

The sharp blade of the scalpel glinted as it caught the white light of his magnifier stand. Ezra adjusted the brightness so that he could see clearly where incisions needed to be made. A first edition copy of L.M. Montgomery’s _Anne of Green Gables_ lay opened, a gift delivered to him by one of his oldest customers who knew of his penchant for rare books. It had a bisque-coloured hardcover of a fine ribbed cloth with an onlay of a woman’s profile in red. Its spine gilt could be in better condition, but otherwise, the gentle fade from heel to head can be easily repaired. What made it even more invaluable, however, was the leaf inscription by the author herself, a “Yours cordially L.M. Montgomery” written in fine script. 

“Your previous owner was right to give you to me,” his sonorous voice whispered while gloved hands were cutting out bits of the pages that were damaged beyond repair. “Alfred would know next to nothing about how to take care of you...But I do!” wiggling in triumph as he raised his blade. 

It’s still an hour until he intended to open the shop. But busy minds called for busy hands, and so he opted for a more productive distraction until work needed to be done. Yet, as every second dragged on, he couldn’t help but be tempted into taking a day off and pore time over this project. More out of necessity than anything else because Ezra, busy as he may think he was with revitalising old worn out editions, hadn’t had any sleep. 

For a week, his thoughts wandered to memories he kept locked in a box, hidden behind a compartment inside his wardrobe. The trigger being his neighbour from across the street. Right after that dinner he knew the memories would force its way to him. Restless nights and pensive days spent watching flashes of the life he once lived on the wide screen, surround sound cinema of his mind. And if he correctly remembered how it worked, it must have already started with Crowley, too. Soon, Crowley would think he was going crazy. He would go to Ezra to ask question after question until he won’t have any choice but to sit him down and explain everything. Then he would imbibe the thoughts and feelings being weaved in his head to his reality. But those were just rhe chemicals in Crowley’s head telling him that all is _right_ and all is _fine_ if he would give in to it. 

Ezra wouldn’t let that happen. 

And so he busies his hands, hoping that the less idle he is, the more he can keep those memories at bay. And the more he’s avoiding him might mean Crowley won’t be haunted by them and can get away unscathed. 

He put down the scalpel with a heavy huff and took off his glasses. 

Looking out the window he could see a world barely containing a yawn as the overcast morning drawled in. From his view, he could see the wide window of the cafe, a glimpse of Tracy and Adam preoccupied with cleaning and setting up. 

Feeling the exhaustion weighing on his shoulders and eyelids, he reached for his mug of cocoa — now cold from neglect — and drank what remained of it. “Maybe I _should_ take a day off.”

Tools were placed back in its box and kept in the desk drawer. Before removing his gloves, he closed the book carefully with a quiet thump, and strode to the furthest bookshelf in his shop, the one reserved for editions such as this. 

His swaying body was making an effort to carry him from one place to the next. So Ezra decided, with utmost reticence, that he desperately needed sleep. Foregoing a trip up the flat, he made his way to the backroom. Once shoes, waistcoat, and button up were removed, followed by a puffing of throw pillows and laying of blankets, he laid himself comfortably on his chesterfield.

Hands sitting relaxed on top of his stomach, moving with every inhale and exhale, Ezra emptied his mind and closed his eyes to sleep. 

_From outside came the sound of waves gently lapping against the rocks. Antony’s house is situated close to the Tyrrhenian, where the winds are not quite as well-travelled as those from the Mediterranean, but comforting enough in its seclusion._

_“I think I need a shave,” Aziraphale said, fingers raised to his thickening beard._

_Antony hummed absently as he continued his sketching. The room was of marble and stone, expansive and shaped by deft hands._ An artist’s hands _, he thought. Standing in front of the mirror, a basin full of water in front of him, Aziraphale lifted the iron razor and began trimming his beard down to a stubble. Hands cupped with water, he wiped the excess hair off his face to inspect what he’d done so far._

_He looked back at Antony who was still slouched forward on his desk, brows furrowed and tongue sticking out in hard concentration. A sight that made the blonde man giggle. “Watch how you sit, Antony,” he said turning back to the mirror, lathering soap on his cheek and chin and raising the iron blade once again. “You might fall flat on your face.”_

_Confident hands held the razor and ran it smoothly and carefully on his face. Within a few minutes, he was done. Aziraphale touched smooth and sensitive skin, goose pimples forming as the wind came in from their open window._

_As he began to clean up, he felt arms snake around his stomach, a light kiss just below his ear, and a heavy head resting on his shoulder. “Something the matter, dear?,” he asked Antony, who lifted his head and grinned at him from their reflection on the mirror._

_“Nothing. I just thought, I’d rather my face fall flat on you than on that table.”_

_He leaned his head back on Antony’s shoulder laughing even as he flushed bright red. “You’re ridiculous,” he said fondly._

_“Hmm,” Antony nuzzled into his hair, breathing him in. “Ego amo te, angelum meum,” he whispered lovingly. He lifted a hand to turn Aziraphale’s face to him, both gazing at each other in open adoration, and then leaned forward to press against those soft lips._

_There was no rushing this. In between the kisses and the meaningful smiles, a promise was being seared into each other’s skin. The arm around Aziraphale’s waist tightened its hold while his own hand moved to cup Antony’s face, deepening the kiss._

_Antony broke away first, chuckling at a pouting Aziraphale. “Here, love,” he said, reaching for two stoppered bottles right next to the basin. “Turn around and let me put this on you”_

_Aziraphale did as he was told, closing his eyes at the first touch of oiled hands massaging his face. Antony’s fingers pressed delicately on his skin, the way he does so when he’s working on a sculpture. Thumb tracing the shape of his jaw, his other fingers exploring the expanse of his face. When he was satisfied, he cleaned his hand off of the oil and poured a bit of perfume. This, too, he rubbed on Aziraphale’s face, the smell of lavender instantly mixing with the crisp, salted air that surrounded them._

_“There, I’m done.”_

_Aziraphale opened his eyes to the sight of a giddy smile. “I want to show you something,” Antony added, dragging him by the hand to his desk. “This is what I was working on.”_

_It was a rough sketch of pinioned wings, the details on the feathers make them look like their ruffling. There were handwritten notes on the side in Antony’s familiar scrawl, detailing the make and size of his new design_. 

_“It’s beautiful,” he traced the lines with a finger, hoping to glimpse and understand the creative mind behind it. “It’s unfortunate that we’re leaving soon. Anyone who wears this would’ve been an object of envy in Rome.”_

_Antony stepped into the little space between them and took one of his hands in his. “I’m glad you like it, angel. Because I don’t intend for anyone in Rome to wear it but you. So they can kiss my Roman ass goodbye as we leave them envious of your ring.”_

_He laced their fingers together, running his thumb along Antony’s. Aziraphale raised their clasped hands to his chest. “Dum spiro—,” he began, hoping the weight of his words was felt through the beating of his heart. “Dum spiro, ego amo te. I will not let anything happen to you.”_

Ezra startled awake, the movement sending him sliding off of the couch. The blanket tangled around his legs and his forehead going red from hitting the floor. Sitting up, he nervously ran a hand through his thick curls, the other raised to his medium stubble to ground him as he re-oriented his pounding heart and panicked eyes. 

“Alright, that’s it!” 

Picking himself up, Ezra stomped towards his phone. With each number he pressed, more of his anger was released. 

“Hello?” the woman on the other line answered within two rings. 

“Anathema, I’ll be visiting today. Ready the pot!” he demanded and rang off before she could respond. 

As soon as his clothes were back on his person, off Ezra went to the village of Tadfield. 

***********************************************

They say bad things precede the sound of screeching tires. In Crowley’s case, the bad thing that preceded the sorry sound of rubber and asphalt was standing with his arms outstretched in front of his cafe, arguing with an orange-haired pseudo-psychic who was brandishing a spatula as if it were a sword. 

“ _Luke_ ,” he hissed, venomous. 

He wheeled his car just in front of his establishment, parking rules be damned, composed himself as he put on his sunglasses, and stepped out of his car. “Excuse me, sir!” shoutinh like there weren’t any pedestrians about. “It’s illegal to leave garbage out on the sidewalk. Please, vacate my area and throw your sorry ass into the stinkiest bin before I do it for you.”

His ears were ringing with the adrenaline rushing through his veins, prompting him to move between Luke and his aunt. 

“Hello, _darling._ I see you haven’t lost your bite,” came Luke’s cool reply. “Can we talk inside? Or do you prefer we faff around like lunatics out here?”

Crowley shivered, flexing his knuckles to release nervous tension. He knew that tone intimately. That suave, devilish lilt he only ever used when he wanted something. Theirs simply hadn’t been a relationship with a rose-coloured tint; it was the dark shade of his glasses that hid from him how rotten to the core it was. 

“Fine,” he said tersely. Crowley swiftly turned to the cafe without checking if Luke was following, pushing his aunt inside with him amid her protests, then whispered, “We’ll just be in my office. I’ll make it quick, I promise.” 

The morning crowd doesn’t usually stay for very long. They’d come in, give their orders, and rush out to work. And so it was with great annoyance that Crowley found the place full, all eyes and whispers directed at them. He continued to shuffle past them, focusing on his office door just off the side beside the kitchen entrance. When his clammy hand met the cold metal of his knob, he grabbed at Luke’s wrist and quickly dragged him into the office before slamming the door shut. 

“Ooh, frisky are we?” a teasing he’d rather not suffer this morning. 

“Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t want any of my customers to feel sick after looking at you for very long,” he replied with a straightface, gesturing for his guest to take his seat before rounding his table to sit on the opposite side. 

“Now,” he folded his fingers on top of a neat pile of papers on his desk and straightened his back, taut like an arrow aimed and ready to be fired. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing here?” 

“There’s no need to be hostile,” Luke said, moving his chair so that he’s facing Crowley. Crossing his legs with his hands sitting primly on his knee, “I rather thought we can be adults and have a civil conversation.”

Snorting, he adjusted his glasses and rested his chin on steepled hands. “Oh, I expect this conversation to be _far_ from civil, and I’d really prefer it if we make this quick. I didn’t exactly order a side of diarrhea with my breakfast this morning.”

The proverbial glove has been thrown between them, a challenge both have been preparing for since they split. 

Luke’s gaze turned soft, however, and made as if to steel himself, and said, “I missed you.” 

It took a moment for Crowley to register what he had said, and when he did, Luke startled to the sound of his hand slamming on the desk, his body bowled over from laughing. “You went all this way for _that?_ Shouting at the wall while you’re wanking to your shite music could’ve saved you time.” A visible wince spurred Crowley to kick it up a notch by flashing pointed canine teeth.

His guest shifted in his seat looking more like he _would_ rather be doing that. But the man wanted something from him, and Crowley would needle it out just so he could have the satisfaction of denying it from him. “Go on,” he added. “Try again.”

Tilting his head, Luke’s gaze morphed from a pining mask to a taunting gaze, with an eyebrow raised and an amused smirk. “Alright, enough of that, then. Pretenses aside though, you can’t fault me for trying.”

“You needed to know if you can still press my buttons.”

“Hmm yes, or if I at least have an effect on you, however little that may be.”

Both men square off silently, sizing each other up and gauging their chances. “I invested in this business, Anthony. It’s as much mine as it is yours.”

“An investment that I’ve paid back, if you recall. Plus change,” Crowley bit out through gritted teeth. He always knew Luke was going to come for him for this if he doesn’t remove everything that connects him to the cafe. So he loaned and took odd jobs to earn the amount he had put in. But it was Tracy who didn’t simply step in but forcefully made it clear she can help. Reluctant as he was, they were able to pay off, not just the investment, but also the amount Luke claimed to have spent on him with her savings. And though she insisted he doesn’t owe her anything, he’s been saving enough on the side so he can pay his aunt back. 

“You had no right to claim ownership then, and you definitely don’t have one to do it now.”

Luke’s lips were in a tight line, obviously annoyed at how long this is taking, and oh how sweet it is to see how riled up he’s getting. 

“I’ve put in the _time_ . I taught you everything you needed to know. You can’t just expect me to remain idle when I contributed _ideas_ when you had none.”

Crowley guffawed and truly lost it, he was sure everyone outside heard him but he couldn’t care less. “Are you hearing yourself? I don’t even think you believe what you’re saying. You didn’t teach me shit. Or did you think those little drunken ‘suggestions’ were the _ideas_ you so helpfully contributed? Because look around, _darling_ , there’s none of those here.”

They were interrupted by a head of brown curls popping in from the door. Adam came in without knocking, balancing a plate of Salmon and Cream Cheese Bagel and Crowley’s thermos of black coffee. “Hi uncle Crowley!” came the boy’s spritely greeting. “Aunt Tracy said you need to eat now before his face,” pointing directly at Luke’s nose with the hand holding the thermos, “Puts you off food the whole day.” The boy ambled toward Crowley’s side of the desk and carefully puts down his food. 

A welcome interruption because he was sure they were seconds to getting at each other’s throats. Crowley ruffled the boy’s hair in silent thanks. “Anything else you need from me?”

“Oh! Aunt Tracy will visit Ezra in a bit. She was asking if you’d like her to send a message on your behalf.”

He rolled his eyes, releasing an amused sigh. _Of course she’s going to mention Ezra._ Shaking his head, he said, “Well, you can tell Tracy that she’s not a courtier, I’m capable of sending my own messages. And tell her to have fun with Ezra.”

“Okay!” Both men watched as the boy skipped his way out the door. 

Picking up his bagel, he made sure to stare at Luke as he took a huge bite. 

“Ezra? New boyfriend?” he asked. 

“None of your business. And don’t change the subject.” he replied through a mouthful. “You were insinuating that the time you spent with me was _valuable_ . In that case, can I charge _you_ for the 5 years I spent being suffocated and manipulated into a relationship with the personification of raisin bran?” Crowley opened his thermos loudly and audibly glugged his black coffee. 

Luke cleared his throat and uncrossed his legs. He moved his chair close to the desk and glared at Crowley as a last attempt at getting a foothold in their conversation. “You _left_ me without giving me a chance to explain.”

“Ah, there it is. Finally, the real reason you’re here.” He continued to eat, letting the awkwardness of the moment wash over him and land heavy on his guest. After the last bite, he drank the remaining coffee as slowly as he could manage, and finished with a loud “aaah.”

“So,” he said, putting his breakfast aside. “The way I see it, me leaving of my own volition instead of being _disposed of_ is the real issue here. And you’re angry about it. Are you so bored that you presume I’d still have anything to do with you?”

“You’re being _difficult_ , darling. This behaviour isn’t _you_.”

Crowley leapt, nearly toppling his chair. Perhaps it was the voice that reminded him of days when he’d do whatever Luke said without giving it another thought, the endearments that used to make him fluster with delight, or that sting when he was told he’d been a disappointment. Or perhaps it was all of it, reminding him of the hell he had escaped while feeling sorrowful for those who hadn’t been able to. 

A cold, seething rage lay hidden behind a calm exterior. Crowley stood straighter, eyes alight with renewed hostility, and the words he spoke in the space between them were well above a whisper, and yet echoed daunting through the walls of his office. “I’m only gonna say this once, so pay attention, prick. You’re not welcome here. If I ever caught as much as a whiff of that ghastly poison you call a perfume, I won’t be responsible for the homicidal reaction that’s gonna come out of me.”

He dragged Luke out of his chair by the arm and opened his office door. Morning rush finally waned leaving only a few tables at the far end occupied. He walked past two of his staff who were cleaning the prep counter, feeling a well of satisfaction when he noticed that both were glaring daggers at the man he was hauling behind him. “Right,” he said, reaching for the cafe door, and continued shoving him until they reached his car. “That was a lovely chat! Let’s not do it again. Ciao!” 

Shocked still by what transpired, Luke only glowered at Crowley as he fumbled for the keys to his car. But there’s a threat of retribution in the way he looked out his passenger window with the corners of his mouth quirked into a sly smile. 

_I embarrassed him_ , Crowley thought. _He’s gonna find another way to get to me_. 

As Luke skidded off the pavement, two figures approaching him caught his attention. “Hey, thought you were going to visit Ezra.”

Tracy and Adam watched the car drive off before turning to look at him. “Closed. I did see him leave this morning, most likely doing errands. Ezra does have very odd hours, after all,” Tracy said. 

Crowley opened the door for them both. As he did so, he looked at the shop across the street. About two thoughts entered his mind: That he hoped Ezra hadn’t witnessed the scene this morning. And that he suddenly found himself in need of comfort from someone that wasn’t his family. 

“Lots of coffee, ‘s what I need. Enough to power the whole street.”

***********************************************

“Wait, hold up,” Anathema said, a biscuit left half dipped in a cup that’s more milk and honey than tea. 

Tadfield seemed to Ezra like the setting of a children’s story, much like the A.A. Milne’s or Beatrix Potter, not only in the way the village looks — a combination of old-world glamour that’s made to work with the natural landscape around them — but also in the energy that the place exudes. It was a comfort comparable to feeling the weight of a warm duvet on a cold morning or the gentle pitter patter of rain on the window as you clutch a hot mug between your hands. 

Despite the overcast mood that prompted his visit, Ezra felt it ebb out of him slowly as he approached Jasmine Cottage, his friend meeting him with open arms. He was led to a garden set just under the biggest shade on their yard, the table filled with treats he knew they couldn’t possibly finish. But no matter, it was such a very lovely day for it. 

It was marred only by one Anathema Device gaping across from him. “So the memory swirl started right after dinner...Isn’t that a good thing?”

“No, it isn’t. Because my memory swirl means _his_ memories are being set off. That’s the very thing I’ve been avoiding, Ana.” he said exasperated. A misty-eyed Ezra bit into his finger sandwich, a simple chicken and cheese with tomato and lettuce.

Anathema was thoughtful for a moment. He watched as she finally took pity on the soggy biscuit and ate all of it in one go, yet she still managed to regard him with equal amounts of annoyance and frustration. “But you said it yourself, you had a lovely time together. You just gushed about that one dish he cooked for a good 15 minutes!”

“That was _not_ 15 minutes!”

“It is, you fussy eater! I never thought duck confit could be described in the way you just did, as if a choir of angels came down and handfed you.”

Ezra crossed his arms defensively across his chest and shifted back on the cold metal of his chair. From beyond the fence he could see a group of children running past, towards the direction of Hogback Wood. He’d been there a few times, the thick overgrowth made for pleasant isolation. Perfect for kids with an overactive imagination, he supposed. 

“Aziraphale,” an old name from an old life whispered carefully. He glanced back to meet Anathema’s soft, pitying gaze. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding him? You don’t want those memories to come back?”

The faint twittering sound of birds filled in the silence between them, and with the wind that passed, the earthy smell of ichor — one of the ways this little village feels more detached from the world. “I don’t want him to think that he needs to be with me because of those memories. I certainly don’t want him to _feel_ any sort of emotion because he’s being physically and mentally forced to do so.”

He gazed down at his hand, at the signet ring’s accusing sheen. “And I suppose, most of all, our distance _will_ protect him from them.”

Century’s worth of studying produced nothing helpful about what and _why_ they are. They’re human, that much was evident. Their immortality, he thinks, is more like a quirk, a glitch in their design. It doesn’t make them invulnerable. Sure, it takes a while for them to get sick, but they _do_ get sick. They can also be killed. And no death had been more traumatic to him than the time he knew he could’ve done something to stop it. 

Theirs was a promethean existence. 

A balled up napkin thrown at his direction broke through his contemplative stupor. “What was that for?”

“Eres un idiota, Aziraphale.” Anathema clutched at the table and leaned forward. She breathed in deep, and that started to frighten him. That can only mean one thing: she’s preparing to lecture and Ezra would be wise to remain still. 

“First of all,” she picks up another biscuit and bites off almost half of it. “You assume the memories will push him towards liking you when it doesn’t work that way. The memories come back because it’s a means to remind you of your past lives. It just so happens that _you_ and _him_ have been together for such a long time both your experiences are closely intertwined. When I had my memory swirls, most of the time, Newt wasn’t even in them. Why? Because our experiences together isn’t as ye olde as yours.”

She picked up the pot and aggressively poured more tea into their cups, some of it sloshing out the rim. “Second of all, bonded or not, give him a bit of credit. He _does_ have a choice and if he chooses to be with you, would you deny him that and tell him what he’s feeling is _wrong_?You know there’s always the possibility you’re not endgame. Just ask Gabriel.”

Trembling hands lifted the cup to her mouth, and how he hated it when he’s the one causing the distress. “And lastly,” she continued, more softly this time but not without the vigor of her reprimand. “The attacks weren’t your fault. We don’t know much about our kind, and some of them obviously didn’t cope well. So I will not hear you bearing the weight of sins you had no hand in committing.”

Anathema stood from her seat and extended both hands in offering for Ezra to take. He pushed himself up to face her, silent tears trickling on his face. “He would be confused, Aziraphale. Don’t leave him alone.” 

She hugged him close and lay her head comfortably on his shoulder. He had been the first of their kind that she met. By then, Anathema had her first taste of the consequences of immortality, having lost the family she had been born in. Ezra went to Béziers because he felt that he needed to, and while he did meet Arnaud as the reincarnated Antony, he also gained a sister that day. 

She loosened her hold and gazed at him. “I know damn well you’re gonna continue overthinking this because you’re stubborn that way. So I won’t tell you what to do, even if I know pursuing this will make you happy. Because it will, mi hermano. But at least be a friend to him and be there when he needs it.”

_Be a friend to him. I think I can manage that._

***********************************************

This could be a mistake. 

The altercation earlier did nothing to distract him from his work. But it did make him feel heavy and full, like he wanted to fall and let all of it flow out of him. 

Bewildered and vulnerable, he let his body lead him away to find comfort someplace else. This is how he ended up sitting on the steps of Ezra’s bookshop after closing. 

Crowley’s head was buried in his hands in an effort to vanish his surroundings and quiet his mind. He wouldn’t be able to explain to the bookseller why he’s there and why he chose to come to him, of all people. He thinks it’s because he needed a perspective that’s detached from the intricacies of his life, an outsider looking in. 

Deep in thought, he didn’t hear Ezra come up, and so a touch to his shoulder surprised him. “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

He shot up from the floor and clutched his coat close to his chest. “‘S alright,” he said sheepish, scratching the back of his head. “I should be the one apologising, hanging around your shop like that.”

Ezra visibly relaxed and smiled at him. Under the streetlight he could see why his dream version called him a radiant angel. “Nonsense, I’m sure your being here turned away any danger of theft in my shop. I should be thanking you.”

Crowley threw his head back, “Hey, I don’t go off being a guard dog just for anybody, so you’d be right in thanking me,” he said, prompting a laugh from the other man. This is what needs, he thought, whatever this is that’s making him feel better already.

“Well, if there’s anything I can do for you…?” Ezra said, the ‘what are you doing here?’ implied. 

_I’m already here. Might as well go for it._

“My ex came to the cafe this morning. Made a scene.”

Turning away from him, Ezra reached inside his jacket pocket to get a key and unlocked the door to the bookshop. 

Instead of going in and bidding him goodbye, Ezra stepped aside. “Would you like to come inside? We can talk about it, if you want. I distinctly remember a Glenfiddich in my pantry. Perfect for these things, don’t you think?”

Crowley let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He stepped up and closed the space between him and Ezra, “Maybe we can talk about it some other time, angel. But I can use a drink and a friend tonight.”

He saw Ezra grow tense, breathing changed with his demeanour, but it was shaken off quickly as it came as he opened the door wide for him. Inside, one warm light just at the far end looked to be turned on, inviting even in the darkness of the place. 

“Very well, dear. After you.”


End file.
